


I Have Nothing

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Song Fics [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, POV John Watson, Songfic, Upset Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 15:23:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11694483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock finally precipitates a conversation John has been avoiding, prompting John to search for the right words.





	I Have Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> One of these days, I'll write what I've intended to, instead of getting a song stuck in my head and having to write a songfic instead. Tomorrow, I swear.  
> This one is inspired by Whitney Houston's amazing power ballad of the same name. [lyrics here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/whitneyhouston/ihavenothing.html), [video here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FxYw0XPEoKE)  
> Unbeta'd again. Sorry/not sorry. <3

The hurt look in Sherlock’s eyes brought John up short. He blinked, momentarily stunned as Sherlock turned and quietly closed his bedroom door. That in itself was unexpected – Sherlock was more of a ‘slam it so the flat shakes’ kind of a person. What on earth had happened to effect such a change?

Frowning to himself, he chewed on his lower lip, walking back to drop into his chair. His mind wound back over the day. They’d been to a scene, nothing out of the ordinary; Lestrade was there, with Anderson his usual prickly self. None of the comments directed at Sherlock had been unusual, which meant they’d varied between snide and exasperated. Sherlock had ignored or retorted as he always did, with occasional dirty looks from John to punctuate his words. John had muttered a few choice comments to Anderson before they had left. By the time he’d made it down the stairs Sherlock was climbing into a cab, his face turned away from John. Assuming he was in his mind palace, John had simply enjoyed the silence until they’d made it into 221b.

“Chinese, then?” John had asked. That was the moment Sherlock had stopped, his back to John. His fingers pressed into the tabletop, the only sign of stress John could see. And that was the moment he’d turned around, displaying his pain without a word. The fact that he then shut himself in his bedroom left John bewildered. Nothing John had noticed had happened to trigger this…whatever it was. Leaning back in his chair, John stared at the ceiling, the debate inside raging. Should he ask Sherlock what was wrong, or see how he was in the morning? There had been numerous times in the past year when Sherlock had slammed a door one evening and appeared perfectly calm the next day, refusing to even acknowledge his bad mood. This was different, though, John was sure. He just didn’t know how.

Someone had once said to him, “Never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.” He was a lawyer, and John was pretty sure he meant in a courtroom; John tended to think about it more as, “Never ask a question you’re not prepared to hear the answer to.” Asking Sherlock what was bothering him could result in a range of conversations, from why Anderson was such a dick, to how John could try harder to keep up with Sherlock, to…John didn’t want to think about the last option. It was too personal, too intimate to consider. That was a conversation he definitely did _not_ want to have with Sherlock, possibly ever.

Sighing, he stood up, rolling his shoulder before turning to trudge up the stairs to bed. Before he’d made it more than half a dozen paces, Sherlock’s door swung open and he stormed out.

“Typical.” Sherlock snapped. His tone was aggressive, an odd juxtaposition to his defensive body language – shoulders hunched, arms crossed. _Protecting himself?_ John asked himself.

“Pardon?” John replied. His heart had started to pound – it seemed they were going to talk about whatever it was, whether he wanted to or not.

“You spend eleven minutes deciding if you would come and see what was bothering me and as usual you took the coward’s way out. Ignore it and hope it will go away.”

John was shocked at this tirade from Sherlock. “Coward’s way?” He asked, voice level despite his racing pulse.

“Yes, John. You would have considered all the possible reasons I was upset – well, as many as you could think of. Once you’d narrowed down the possibilities, you would only have knocked on my door if the likely answer was one you wanted to talk about.” John nodded, not denying it; Sherlock often knew him better than he knew himself. He ignored the nasty little digs – they weren’t relevant to the problem, and although he really didn’t want to talk about it, now that he was in the conversation, he was _not_ a coward – better to get it over with.

“Why don’t you tell me what the problem is, then, and we can get it over with.” John said, clenching his fist as he waited for Sherlock to speak. His calm exterior seemed to be throwing Sherlock off balance, as he frowned before he spoke.

“John, you’re in love with me.”

If John had thought he was stunned earlier, this was a whole new level of incapacity. “Wh…” he started, staring at Sherlock. That was not what he had been expecting. Well, the general idea was the same – but not such a definitive, bold statement. _You’re in love with me._

“The only reason I can think of for your continued reluctance to accept and acknowledge this is that you believe we are fundamentally incompatible, despite your attraction.” Sherlock’s voice was calm on the surface, but John knew him well enough to spot the tells that gave away his nerves. His eyes bore into John’s, a fierce determination there, as though this conversation had been put off so long it was bursting out of him. John wondered how fast the heart beneath that expensive shirt was beating; was it faster than his own? It didn’t seem possible.

“Okay,” John said carefully, neither confirming nor denying Sherlock’s assertion about his feelings. “So why are you bringing this up now?”

“Did you have something better to do?” Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow.

“I meant….how long have you believed…this?” John asked.

“Five months, two weeks and four days ago, I made a comprehensive study of our interactions with a focus on your reactions to various situations. My conclusion was that you have a significant emotional attachment to me, beyond the boundaries of friendship and including physical desire. I assumed you would have reached a similar conclusion and acted upon it within a reasonable time. When you had not, I made a secondary study and determined that you were either suppressing your emotions or denying them. The only reason I can consider as possible is, as I said – you believe we are fundamentally incompatible.”

Sherlock’s speech was always fast, but John knew that the more anxious he was, the more formal his speech became. So, he was anxious. Interesting.

“And what triggered tonight, specifically?” John tried again, still not understanding.

Sherlock stared for a moment before saying, “The last thing you said to Anderson before we left that scene, John?”

John swallowed. “I told him that it wouldn’t matter if he had every fact in the world in his head, he’d never be half as remarkable as you.”

Sherlock nodded. “And then he made a snide comment about us being gay, and you said…”

“I’m not gay.”

Sherlock nodded again. “That’s the one hundredth time you’ve said that, John.”

“Really?” John was taken aback. Sherlock was _counting_?

“Really. Sexual orientation semantics aside, the continued vehemence with which you deny your feelings has eaten away at my self-control. So we find ourselves here.”

John considered this for a moment before speaking again. “As far as I can see, there are two possible reasons you might bring this up. Either you are in love with me too and you’re hurt I haven’t acted upon it, or you’re not in love with me and you’re angry about this for some other reason.”

Sherlock’s pale face managed to whiten before it flushed red. His eyes did not leave John. “I would like to explore a physical relationship with you John.” He stopped, then shook his head, clearly angry with himself. “No, it’s more than that. I want to be your partner, boyfriend, whatever you want to call it. I want that intimacy. I have never wanted that with any other living soul, John, do you realise how rare it is for me to even like another person? I want to tell you stories and memories and hear yours. I want to know every detail about you, things nobody else knows.”

John’s brain was whirring, spinning at this spout of emotional words from Sherlock. He didn’t even know Sherlock felt this deeply about anything, any _one_ , let alone him. Just beyond the sound of his mind working, there was a high pitched whining that grew louder and louder and…

 _Panic attack_.

It was too much. Too much information, too much expectation, too much _too much_. John gasped, eyes wide, before stumbling up the stairs to his bedroom. He curled up on his bed, hugging his knees as he struggled to control the screaming in his head and the burning in his lungs. For long moments, his ears were filled with the pounding of his heart and his ragged breathing; gradually he felt everything slow down, the pressure of his tightly closed eyes lessening as he was able to relax his face. Letting out a final shaking breath, John forced his arms to soften, legs straightening a little as he slumped against the pillow. He was exhausted, but he also knew that he’d run out on Sherlock halfway through a conversation. An important conversation. He was pretty sure that no matter the outcome, he would think of it as The Conversation in the future.

Rolling onto his back, John stared at his bedroom ceiling. He had never admitted it to himself, but this was the answer he’d been dreading – the reason not to ask the question. What was he to Sherlock, and vice versa? What did he want from their relationship? What did Sherlock want? Actually, that last one had never occurred to him. He’d always assumed that Sherlock wanted exactly what he had – a flatmate to buy milk, gripe a little but more or less capitulate to all his whims, and tell him how brilliant he was. Nothing more. The question of _What do you want?_ was the trickiest. In the late night moments, when he lay awake, damp with sweat and hoarse from shouting at the mist in his dreams, John knew he wanted to be held, to have the scent of that expensive soap surrounding him. That meant _safe_ , that meant _home_. Baker Street and Sherlock were as much a part of him as his arm, and he’d no sooner give them up than give up his arm. He and Sherlock knew each other better than brothers and despite his complaints, he knew they put each other first when it counted. He’d never considered it further than that, but he knew what all that signified. _You love him_ , the voice in his head told him, and John finally listened.

“Fuck.” He whispered into the dark. Examining his newly acknowledged feelings, he recognised his anxiety about a lot of aspect of this – his sexuality, the change in dynamic with Sherlock, the risk of losing what they already had, how his family would react, if he could live up to what Sherlock might envision their relationship looking like. There were a lot of variables, things he couldn’t control; he needed to concentrate on the things he could influence. When he considered the options, he realised there was only one thing he could do. It scared the shit out of him, but every other possibility lead to the same place, a consequence he was not ready to accept. Oddly enough, that helped cement his decision. Taking a deep breath, John sat up, giving himself a moment before he stood and walked down stairs.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, curled up like a cat. His eyes fixed on John as he walked across the room, though John didn’t look as he scrolled through his phone for the right YouTube video. Though he’d managed to work through his panic attack, John’s anxiety hadn’t dropped too far; this was the biggest risk he’d ever taken. When the first strains of the song began, he hit pause, finally turning his gaze to Sherlock’s.

“I figured I had four options.” He told Sherlock quietly. “I could leave. I could tell you you’re wrong, that I’m not in love with you, that we can be friends and nothing more. I could offer to move out, to work with you but live somewhere else.” Even the recitation of these options made him feel sick. “The result would be the same; I would be miserable, but more importantly, Sherlock, so would you, and I couldn’t accept that.” His face softened and he knew affection was blooming in his gaze for the first time. “I couldn’t hurt you, Sherlock.” Fumbling a little, John pressed play, the introductory chords building.

“John?” Sherlock whispered, his wide eyes pleading for John to be explicit.

“Dance with me.” John replied, holding out one hand. “And listen.”

Sherlock slowly unfolded his body before standing awkwardly before John. When John stepped in, placing his hands on Sherlock’s waist, the taller man’s arms naturally fell around his shoulders; John felt his body slacken as he listened to the lyrics, finally understanding what John was trying to say. _I’m sorry, I was wrong_ , Sherlock heard, _Be mine, let me stay with you_. The message was clear, echoed in the soaring lyrics and music alike. It was an evocative mix of determined, powerful lyrics and gentle serenading; a good analogy for their partnership, John could already tell. Before the song ended they were clinging to each other, chests pressed together, Sherlock’s nose buried in John’s hair. As silence fell once more, John reached for his phone, turning it off before something hideous could autoplay, shattering the atmosphere.

“So, not gay?” Sherlock asked, his weak smile showing John he was attempting a joke.

“No,” John replied consideringly, “but I suppose not all that straight, either.”

They smiled at the little joke, before John tilted up and Sherlock tilted down. As they did so often, John and Sherlock met in the middle.


End file.
